Lost Boy
by tommyhanson
Summary: A series of ficlets about de-aged Neal. Also featuring Peter, Elizabeth and Mozzie because they rock.
1. Nightmares

**Lost Boy: Nightmares**

_A/N - Okay, so. A while ago I stumbled across de-aged fics in a different fandom and I liked them way more than I thought I would. And I have found that (sadly) there are very few de-aged!Neal fics out there, so, I got bored in class and have started my own. It's not great, it's not even remotely polished, but it's got widdle!Neal, so… Oh, and for anybody reading my fics "CIAgent" or "Mosaic", I'm sorry I haven't been updating, but I got the Blue Screen of Death on the computer with my fics and I'm trying to find a way to save my files, but it's taking time. I'm sorry for not updating, but this time it's really not my fault. Honest._

Peter's had nightmares like this before. They're usually preceded by a midnight snack of deviled ham, or, on one unfortunate occasion, a meatball sub.

But he'd had chicken last night. He remembered, because they'd had Neal over and he and El had discussed which wines would best compliment the quail she was having served at somebody's wedding next week. Neal had recommended one he'd tried in Vienna.

Neal.

Neal, who was standing in front of Peter in a shirt that went down past his knees, and a hat that kept slipping over too-large eyes.

"P'tr?" A tiny voice squeaked out of a tiny body.

He'd had nightmares like this.

Nightmares where Neal Caffrey, world-class con artist, was nothing more than a little boy.

Sometimes he was small and broken and bleeding, because Peter hadn't protected him, hadn't prevented him from being shot, or blowing up on a plane.

Sometimes he was just a little voice on a telephone line, begging for Peter to find him, taken, or running, but always _missing, _always _lost._

And sometimes he was just a little boy, his and El's little boy, with too much energy and a penchant for finding trouble, and enough charm to get out of it.

But he always woke up.

Peter pinched himself hard enough to bruise.

He wasn't waking up.

A tiny, child-sized version of Neal stared up at Peter and sniffed. "P'tr?"

Crap.


	2. Conversations

_**Lost Boy: Conversations**_

_Disclaimer: Not mine. The first chapter wasn't either, but I think it's safe to assume that you probably knew that already._

_A/N - Huh, I don't really have anything to say. Um, read and review? Please and thank you with sugar on top. _

They'd talked about having kids, of course.

It was one of the conversations that every couple in a serious relationship eventually had. So they'd discussed it when they were dating, in a 'not-opposed-to-the-idea' kind of way, and then when they were engaged in a 'sure-someday-I-guess' kind of way, and then several times throughout their marriage in a 'it's-not-the-right-time' kind of way.

And eventually ten years slipped by without it ever being the right time, because either it was too soon, or they were too busy, or they were too focused on their careers. The last time they had talked about it they'd had another 'it's-not-the-right-time' conversation, and even though they didn't say it, they were both well aware that maybe it would never be the 'right time' until one day it would slip into 'too late'.

The next day Peter had brought home a tiny yellow lab puppy, and Elizabeth didn't think they'd ever have that conversation again.

And then years later Peter brought home a tiny little boy with Neal's eyes and Neal's smile, and wearing Neal's hat.

And before Peter could even open his mouth, even begin to try to explain, Elizabeth could see a new conversation looming on the horizon.

One that had changed from 'it's-not-the-right-time' to 'what-the-hell-do-we-do-now'.


	3. Trouble

**Lost Boy: Trouble**

Disclaimer: Not mine. But if Santa's taking requests…

_A/N - I'm avoiding my 8 page film paper and 20 page (yeah, seriously, __**20**__ page) PTSD paper in lieu of writing this. Please review so I'll have something to console me once I've failed university. Ta._

It didn't take them long to figure out that while Neal was still _Neal_, he wasn't just a miniature version of his usual self. Usually Neal was a master at hiding himself, at distracting you while he slipped on a mask so that you'd only see what he wanted you to see. But this new tiny version of Neal, he wasn't as good at that.

That's not to say he wasn't trying. Peter could see that he was, in the way he set his little jaw when he tried not to cry at all the confusion of suddenly being so small and helpless. The way he sniffled so quietly, like no other three(ish) year-old would bother to do, and the way he tried to grin like he wasn't afraid, even though his lower lip trembled.

A part of Peter, the small part that acknowledged that maybe Neal hadn't always lived a charmed life, hadn't always had the ability to dance between raindrops, desperately hoped that this rudimentary attempt to hide himself was a manifestation of the adult Neal, and not something that he'd already had habit of at such a young age.

When they asked him questions, he could answer correctly about who they were, who he was, where they were at. He was still Neal, still had adult-Neal's memories, but when asked about some things he answered like a child.

"What happened on the case with the stolen jade elephants?" Peter had asked him.

Neal had scrunched up his tiny face in distaste, his nose wrinkling adorably (not that Peter would ever, _ever_ say that aloud, because he was certain they would find a way to fix this, or else he'd finally _wake up_, and Neal was smug enough as is). "Tuh bad lady twied to shoot me, buts you swaved me P'tr." The "s" noises in his speech came out slightly whistled and lispy, and between that and the fact that Peter was apparently the unrivaled hero in this child-version of the tale, he had to squash down the very unmanly urge to say "awwww." Again, not something he would ever, _ever_ admit to. Ever.

Peter mentally reviewed the facts. Okay, so. Neal Caffrey, con man, forger, thief, parolee, and _Peter's Responsibility _had turned into a child. Kind of Caffrey's own fault, in retrospect, because Peter suspected it had something to do with that strange gold idol thing that he'd told Neal not to touch, but that (Neal being Neal) he'd touched anyway.

Then there was the fact that Neal was, in fact, Neal, and not just a three year-old whoever-he-was-before-he-was-Neal, but he _was_ three (or thereabouts, as close as they could tell) with a three year-olds mindset and emotions and ability to process things like almost-getting-shot.

And finally there was the fact that while Diana had been witness to the amazing de-againg of Neal Caffrey, he was still Peter's Responsibility. And until they found a way to fix whatever had been done to him (which they _would_, really, because otherwise how in the hell was he going to explain this to the Bureau?) , it looked like he was staying with Peter and Elizabeth.

And if it had been hard to resist Neal's charms as an adult, it was _impossible_ when a pouting three-year old turned his large blue eyes to you.

They were in so much trouble.


	4. Necessary

**Lost Boy - Necessary**

Disclaimer: Not mine. Still.

_A/N: Ta-da! It's longer! A few of you have been asking for longer chapters, so here it is. I cannot promise, however, that I won't continue to have mostly short little drabble-esque chapters as I tend to have more luck with those. Anywhoo, read and review, please and thank you. And happy early Turkey Day! :)_

Elizabeth stood in the children's department of Macy's, trying to convince herself that she didn't in fact _need_ to buy every cute outfit that she saw, because after all, Peter said that they were going to have this situation reversed in a few days. So really, a couple of outfits would do.

But just to be on the safe side she picked out a dozen.

She'd had to estimate his size of course, and Neal was such a skinny little boy (and young man as well, however much she and June tried to feed him) and she needed to be sure something would fit, so all twelve were necessary.

And he needed PJ's and underwear, and socks and shoes too, also all necessary, and she wondered what Neal would say when he was back to normal and found that she'd had him in superman underwear and light-up Cars shoes.

She was on her way to the checkout counter when she saw the rack with the tiny bathrobes and towels with hoods that looked like animal heads, and those, she decided, were necessary as well.

She was standing in line to checkout when she noticed the table full of cuddly things, and on impulse, she picked up a soft, fuzzy blue blanket. She was sure it was necessary too.

She paid for her purchases and drove home quickly, then stepped into her home with her arms laden with bags. She set them by the door and called out "Peter! Neal!"

A blur shot out of the kitchen and slammed into her legs. "Liz'bth!" it cried from somewhere around her knees.

She smiled, picking him up and settling him on her hip. "Hi Neal." She watched Satchmo and Peter exit the kitchen more sedately. "Hi!" he chirped. "P'tr made a mess," he informed her delightedly.

She arched an eyebrow at her husband. "Oh he did, did he?"

"Yup. We had ceweal. He spill' tuh milk. Went _evewywhere_." He stretched his arms out and leant back, and she had to adjust her grip to keep him from falling.

"I cleaned it up," Peter defended, staring at the small mountain of shopping bags. "I thought you were only getting some necessities?"

"These are necessities. Little boys need a lot of things." She turned to Neal, not having missed the damp patches on his oversized shirt - also probably milk. "Neal, do you want to wash up and put on a new outfit?"

He nodded vigorously and started pulling at his shirt.

"Peter, why don't you go help him get cleaned up while I find something for him to wear?" Peter reached out to take Neal, and Elizabeth watched as the boy went to him happily, wrapping tiny arms around his neck, and pressing his face against her husband's chest as he was carried out of the room.

Once they'd managed to wipe the milk residue off of Neal's face, chest, and hands, and gotten him changed into a pair of Khaki pants and a t-shirt (amid a joyful cry of "Supuh Man!"), Elizabeth decided by the drooping eyelids and almost bobble-head quality of the little boy that maybe it was naptime.

Neal disagreed. And Peter, the coward, had run back out to the Taurus, claiming that he'd left a case file in the car.

"I'm not sleeeeeee-eepy," Neal claimed, mid-yawn.

"Well, why don't you just lay down and rest your eyes for a little bit then?" she tried.

"My eyes aren' sleepy eithew."

She tried a different tactic. "That's too bad. I had a special surprise for naptime, but I guess since no one is napping…"

That got his attention. "Suhpwise?"

"Yeah," she said casually, "but like I said, it's only for naptimes, so I guess you wouldn't be interested."

Neal's nose scrunched up again, and the pink tip of his tongue peeked out from his lips as he thought this over. "Only fowr naptimes? Can't be fowr playtime?"

She shook her head, trying to keep from smiling. "Nope. Naptime only."

Neal kept on his thinking face for a little while longer before sighing. "Okay. Suhpwise pwease."

Elizabeth knew Neal well enough to confirm. "You're going to take a nap?"

He nodded, eyes flicking to the bags still piled by the door. "But I'm _not_ sleepy."

She smiled.

Ten minutes later, Peter found her in the guest bedroom, staring down at Neal, curled up in a little ball, the thumb of one hand in his mouth.

The other hand was curled tightly around the corner of the fuzzy blue blanket.

Oh yeah. Definitely necessary.


	5. Impulse

**Lost Boy - Impulse**

Disclaimer: Not mine. But my birthday _is_ this week…

_A/N: I've got a billion ideas for this story, but they come to me in little bursts and in no order. Obviously I need to teach the plotbunnies a filing system. It would save me from having to do it. Anywhoo, I felt it was time to include Mozzie, so ta-da! He's here! _

The were in the kitchen when the tapping started.

_Tap Tap Tap Tap._

Peter glanced at the clock and tried to figure out who would be dropping by unexpectedly at quarter after five. Diana was covering for him at work, and they weren't even on any urgent cases, the last one being wrapped up shortly before this, ahem, _situation_ began.

_TapTapTapTap._

He glanced at Elizabeth, smiling, as she held Neal on one hip while he "helped" by stirring the pasta sauce, before heading towards the front door.

_TapTapTapTapTapTap._

He scowled. Whoever this was, they were extremely irritating. If it was another salesman with a pitch about how wonderful their cleaning products were or how he could save so much money by switching his insurance carrier, he was going to get his gun.

He wasn't going to _use_ it. Just scare them a little.

_TapTapTapTapTapTap-_

Peter jerked the door open and was nearly smashed in the face by the wooden handle of an umbrella.

A pair of eyes blinked at him from behind a pair of thick glasses.

Uh-oh.

"What are you doing here?"

Mozzie scurried inside, and Peter closed the door behind him.

"The better question Suit, is who _else_ is here."

Peter resisted the urge he had to squeeze his eyes shut and rub at the bridge of his nose. It was a frequent urge when Mozzie was around. Instead, he sighed. "What?"

"Neal, Suit. He was supposed to meet me at four o'clock to discuss-" his eyes widened a fraction, and shifted around the room. "Things."

Peter briefly considered pressing _that_ interesting topic, but he knew (unless wine was involved) that he'd get nowhere, and he could smell garlic and tomato sauce and fresh bread coming from the kitchen, and decided that he'd really rather be in there than playing games with Mozzie. "Okay. And you're here because…"

Mozzie frowned reproachfully. "You're his keeper. Where is he?"

Peter was just about to come up with a very clever lie and misdirection (hey, Neal wasn't the _only_ one who could do it, he just got more credit for it because Peter only used his powers for good) when a happy burst of giggles came from the kitchen.

Mozzie's frown deepened as he headed towards the sound.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

Peter tried to think of something to say to stop him as Mozzie reached for the kitchen door, but the only thing that would come to him was "freeze!" and that probably wouldn't work. He followed, silently, and tried to think up some way of explaining the little boy in the kitchen. Maybe as El's nephew. That might work. They did look rather a lot alike, after all, the same coloring and-

"Neal?"

-huh?

Mozzie's baffled voice drew the attention of the other two in the room, and Neal grinned.

"Moz!" Hs cry was exuberant, but sounded rather a bit like "moth". Not that Mozzie really noticed at this point.

"Wait a second," Peter said, "how do you know that's Neal?"

Mozzie shot one of _those_ looks at him, like he was thinking unflattering things about Peter's IQ and taking great amusement in it.

"And once again, you ask the wrong question, Suit. The _better_ question is how did _Neal_ get like _that_." He pointed at the boy in question, who stood holding a sauce-covered wooden spoon, looking back and forth between the two men as if it were a tennis match.

Peter sighed again, and scooped Neal up before Satchmo could get any ideas about that spoon. "I think it had something to do with this idol thing-"

"A gold idol? Kinda small, has some odd-looking geometric writing all over it?"

"Yeah!" Peter replied excitedly, "Yeah, that's it. It was part of someone's private collection. When we went to return the La Fresnaye to him Neal couldn't resist touching it. This happened right after that."

"Was pwetty," Neal told them, in between licks of the spoon. "Wanted to feewl the shiny."

Elizabeth, who (up until now) had been quiet, asked the question Peter wanted to know. "Do you know how to fix it?" Something in her voice made Peter glance at her, but he mentally shrugged. He'd worry about it later.

Mozzie shook his head. "No way, Mrs. Suit. I've heard about a couple of things like this, but it's way beyond my area of expertise."

Peter removed the spoon from Neal's hands as he'd moved on from licking it to gnawing on it. "Do you know anyone who would?"

"I generally try to steer clear of cursed objects. Can't say I know anybody who wouldn't."

"Except, obviously, Neal," Peter said wryly.

Mozzie shrugged. "Haven't you noticed by now that he's kinda got impulse control issues?"

Peter wasn't even going to dignify that with an answer.


	6. Questions

Lost Boy - Questions

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_A/N: I'm posting this for you guys today (once again in lieu of homework) as it is my 21__st__ birthday tomorrow and I intend to be out drinking (and watching the funny looks on peoples faces when they find out that yes, I __**am**__ in fact 21) rather than at my computer. Also, YAY, longest chapter yet. _

_Oh, and BTW, __**THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU**__ to everyone who has reviewed. Reviews are my crack, and I love you all for feeding my addiction. You guys make me smile, and I promise to send you all imaginary birthday cake. ;p_

Peter stood outside the guest bedroom, watching Neal sleep. He'd done this before, on occasion, when Neal was sick, or injured. Stood at this door, and watched the young conman as he'd lain curled up, half-closed fist pressed against parted lips, and marveled at how innocent a criminal could look.

He looked much the same now, only smaller, and with the thumb of that fist tucked in his mouth, and that fuzzy blue blanket tangled around him.

Peter quietly closed the door, and padded down the hall to his own room, slipping inside. El was already in her pajamas, her hair loose around her face, applying that fruity-smelling lotion to her arms.

She smiled at him. "He still sleeping okay?"

Peter nodded, and changed into a pair of comfy sweats, trying to figure out how to bring up what had been bothering him. "El?"

"Hm?" She was applying lotion to her legs now, and as always when she did this, he found it a little hard to concentrate.

"Umm…" He turned away from her to put his clothes in the laundry basket, and tried to re-gather his thoughts, amazed that after more than ten years, she could still fluster him like this. "Earlier, when Mozzie was here. When we were talking about how to turn Neal back. You sounded… odd."

He turned back to her, and thank goodness, she was done with the lotion. She arched a delicate eyebrow at him. "Odd?"

"Like… Like you don't want him turned back."

She sighed softly and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm not sure I do."

He'd known this, or at the very least suspected it quite strongly, but it still surprised him to hear the words. "Why?"

She was quiet for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "I love Neal," she finally said, and this _didn't_ surprise Peter, this he knew, had known was inevitable since the first moment he'd seen El and Neal together, their dark heads bent over the coffee table. El had a big heart, and a soft spot for strays, and it was difficult for anybody to not like Neal. And for the very few people who he let glimpse the real him, it was impossible not to love him. El rubbed a hand over her face. "I love him, and I want what's best for him, and I'm just not sure that turning him back is it." She took a breath and looked at him. "What do you know about Neal's past?"

He shrugged. "The Bureau doesn't have any record of him before 2001."

She nodded absently. "I think it wasn't good. His past."

"Has he said something?"

She shook her head. "It's the things he doesn't say, the look he gets. It's a feeling I have."

He smiled, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "Your gut?"

"My heart."

"So… What, El? You want to just leave him like this? Ignore the fact that yesterday he was a grown man, and then what? Keep him? He's not a puppy, El."

"I know that, Peter. But why can't we just… Give him a re-do?"

Peter scrubbed both hands over her face, and sat down beside her. "El, people don't just get 're-do's."

She smiled at him. "People don't just turn into three year-olds either."

Yeah, okay. He had to give her that one.

"El," he laid a hand over her knee, "sweetheart, I'm not sure this is our decision to make."

"Then whose is it?"

Good question. But before he could even begin to think of an answer, a scream rent the air.

They were both up and half way down the hall before Peter even realized he'd moved.

When they half-ran into the room, it was to the sight of Neal pressed tightly against the headboard, eyes wide and wet, searching blindly in the darkness, and still screaming.

Peter switched on the light, while El rushed to his side. The second she reached the bed, Neal launched himself at her, shaking and sobbing, gripping the front of her shirt like a life-line.

"Neal? Neal, baby, what's wrong?" She pulled him onto her lap, rocking him. "Baby, what is it?"

He continued to sob, a heart wrenching sound, and Peter hated this, hated feeling so useless.

Finally, Neal began to take little hiccupping breaths, settling enough that he could speak between the sobs. "Was back." Sob. Sniffle. "Dweamed I was back. In pwison." He whimpered, and tried to snuggle even closer to El. "Woke up and it was dark. Lights out. Always lights out in pwison. Always dark." He shuddered, and El started making shushing noises, running her hand through his mess of hair, and over his back.

Peter looked away. It was the first time he'd ever felt guilty for catching Neal, for arresting him. He told himself that what he did was right, that Neal was a criminal, that he was just doing his job, that he couldn't have _possibly_ known that _this_ would happen, but none of it helped.

Not with Neal trembling like he was, not with so many of his tears soaked into El's pajama top. None of it helped.

It took a good hour for Neal to finally calm down enough to go back to sleep.

Peter still laid awake three hours later, staring at his two favorite people snuggled beside him, a million questions running through his head.

Tomorrow he'd go looking for answers.


	7. Work

**Lost Boy: 7/? - Work**

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_A/N: Sorry that it's taken a while for me to post this. My birthday was followed quickly by finals week (yuck!) so I've been insane and sleep deprived the last several days. Also, thank you everybody for the lovely reviews and birthday wishes. You all rock. A lot._

Peter woke to the smell of bacon. Blearily, he rubbed his eyes, glancing around the room. Empty, but the sheets beside him were rumpled, and Neal's blanket lay among them.

Not a dream then.

He got up and padded quietly down the stairs, following the smells into the kitchen where Neal was carrying forks to the table, and El was flipping pancakes. Neal spotted him first.

"P'tr!" he shouted happily. "We made p'ncakes!"

Elizabeth set out the breakfast on the table and then walked over to give him a kiss. "Neal stirred the batter," she told him, and the little boy grinned proudly.

Peter snatched up a pancake and took a bite. "Mmm," he said, "Best pancake I've ever had."

Neal positively beamed.

They settled in for a nice breakfast, and by the time they were done Peter was pretty sure that there wasn't an inch of Neal not covered in maple syrup.

El noticed too. "Okay Iron Chef, I think it's time for a bath. Honey, do you want to take him while I clean up here?"

Peter found himself headed towards the bathroom, with a sticky toddler in his arms, wondering if it would be weird giving his partner a bath. Then he started worrying about how difficult it would be to give a _three year-old boy_ a bath. He had nephews. He'd heard horror stories. Even, on one memorable visit, had witnessed a very naked little boy being chased around by his very harried father, screaming "No bath! No bath! NOOOOOOO!"

Peter shuddered.

But he forgot to take into account the fact that this was _Neal_. Neal, who (three year-old or not) was almost always immaculately clean and tidy and without a hair out of place.

While Peter stripped Neal of his syrup-covered clothes, Neal stared mournfully at his sticky fingers.

"Sticky," he informed Peter sadly.

"That's because you got more syrup _on_ you than _in_ you."

Neal frowned, then looked at the bath. "Bubbles?" he asked hopefully.

Peter sighed but dumped a capful of shower gel into the water. Some of El's fruity stuff, because Neal scrunched up his nose when Peter had reached for his own.

When the bath was full (and bubbly) enough, Peter turned it off and dumped Neal in. The boy smiled, and began to play with the bubbles, making all sorts of happy noises. Peter let him play for a while, amused by his easy ability to be entertained by such small things before quickly washing him and reaching for a towel.

When they ventured downstairs, El's face lit up at the sight of the boy wrapped in a towel with a duck head for a hood, his messy curls escaping from beneath it. She snatched him from Peter's arms, and Neal informed her "All clean! No mowre sticky."

She smiled at him. "That's good. Since you're all clean would you like to wear a nice new outfit today?"

Neal nodded enthusiastically and while El looked after him, Peter set about getting himself showered and dressed for work. He was adding his wallet and keys to his pocket when Neal (fully dressed and hair dried) rounded the corner into the foyer and looked up at him. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Getting ready for work."

"Work!" he cried, and ran into the living room. He darted around it almost frantically, before diving under the couch. After a minute of rustling about there, he finally slid back out from beneath it, too-large fedora in hand, and stood up, plopping it onto his head. "Okay," he told Peter seriously, "weady for work. We go now?"

Peter spied El by the stairs, a hand cupped over her mouth like she did when she was trying not to laugh. He couldn't keep his own lips from quirking, just a little. "Sorry buddy," he told Neal, "no work for you today."

He pouted. "Why not?"

"Because you're three, Neal. And three year-olds don't work for the FBI."

"Why not?"

"Because they don't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's grown-up work."

"Why?"

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because it just is."

"Why?"

"Because I said so!" Oh God. He'd become his father.

Neal's minor pout progressed into a major one, and looked to be half-way to a tantrum if the trembling lip and watery eyes were anything to go by. El noticed it too, and stepped in. "Neal, why don't you stay with me today? We can go to the park and get lunch in the city, how's that sound?"

Neal shook his head, hard enough that his hat flopped to the ground. "No! Gotta go to work. S'important!"

El frowned, remembering the fears of the previous night. "Are you afraid you'll get sent back to prison if you don't work? Because I promise you Neal, we'd never let that happen."

The defiant look of a tantrum had slipped a bit, to make way for one of uncertainty. "But…" He glanced at Peter, then looked back at El. "But P'tr needs me."

Oh.

Peter tried to tell himself that he should feel insulted that Neal seemed to think that he _needed_ him, because after all, _who_ caught _whom_? But mostly he just felt… _warm_ at the thought that it was so important to Neal, that he be needed by Peter, as a partner and a friend, as someone who he could count on to have his back.

But, Peter reminded himself, this tiny version of Neal was _not_ his partner, would not be his partner again until he fixed this. And he couldn't do that while babysitting a toddler. He knelt down in front of the boy. "Today I need you to go with El," he told him. "I need you to go to the park, and _be good_, and then I'll meet you guys for lunch, okay?"

Finally, hesitantly, Neal nodded. "Okay."

Peter gave the boy a smile, and ruffled his hair, then dropped a quick kiss on his wife's lips on the way out the door.

He didn't look back. He couldn't.

Peter missed his partner, but the longer he spent around this little version, the more he started to wonder just how much he'd miss _him_, when he was gone.


	8. Panic

**Lost Boy - 8/? - Panic**

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_A/N: I'm very very sorry that I'm no longer posting this with any semblance of regularity. Real Life (like transferring Universities - yay! - and tornadoes - yuck! - ) has been seriously cutting into my fanfic time, which sucks, but is apparently what happens when you're a grown up. ...I've decided I don't like it. Anywhoo, here's chapter 7, and I hope to have chapter 8 up very very soon. Keep your fingers crossed that my classes are boring and my professors are blind because in class seems to be the only free time I have to write anymore. Oh, and btw, how awesome have the new eps been! I totally heart them. A lot._

Elizabeth was not prone to panicking. She wasn't. She was a woman of action, someone who met a problem head on, and searched for solutions, and she knew panicking solved nothing.

She told herself that now. _Panicking solves nothing. Don't panic._

Three years after they were married Elizabeth got a two a.m. phone call from a faceless agent, informing her that her husband had been shot and was being transported to the hospital. She hadn't panicked. She'd _wanted_ to. Oh, how she'd wanted to. To be able to break down and fall to the floor, to scream, cry, throw things and feel sorry for herself like women did on television. But she couldn't. Peter was on his way to the hospital, and she needed to meet him there. Peter needed her to not panic.

So she hadn't. She'd gotten up and got dressed, taken a cab to the hospital, and was there in time to catch Peter yelling at a junior agent to 'get back to the scene' and 'preserve the evidence', as he sat up in a bed, leg elevated and bandaged.

She hadn't panicked _then_, she reminded herself.

But Peter was a grown man, a trained agent, her strong husband. And even though she hadn't known what happened, even though she hadn't known if he was okay, she'd still known where he was.

But Neal is little, so little and so young, and she doesn't know where he is. They'd taken a brief detour to pick up some of the more practical things that she'd forgotten upon her first shopping trip for the boy, and he'd been right beside her. She'd let go of his hand for a second, _just a second_, to inspect a booster seat on the shelf, and when she'd reached for him, met only air. Turned around, and he'd gone.

Neal was gone.

Suddenly, a department store was an ominous catacomb. The man looking at strollers the next isle over was a pedophilic kidnapper. Escalators were death traps, and towering isles of merchandise were accidents waiting to happen.

And Neal was lost in it.

Screw it, she was going to panic.

"Neal!" she cried, ignoring the stares around her. "Neal!" She rushed around the store calling his name. He'd been excited, on the way over, bouncing in his seat until his hat had fallen to the floorboard. Would that be the last time she saw him, safe and happy and alive? How could he be there one second and gone the next? How could she be so careless as to let him go, to look away, even for a second?

She wondered, if parents who had lost a child had the chance to go back, to know beforehand, what they were about to lose, if they'd dare to look away, or spend forever in that last moment, their eyes memorizing their child's face, knowing that if they blink, they're gone.

God, how could she tell Peter? How could she tell him that she'd lost him?

"Neal!" Her eyes were blurring, and a manager with a scrunched up face was approaching her, but she didn't care. "Neal!"

There. A flash of dark curls and a tiny body pressed close against a jewelry case. _Neal._

"Neal!" She ran for him, and he turned around, a grinning mouthful of baby teeth, and raised his arms to her. "Liz'bth!"

She scooped him into her arms and held him like he was going to turn to smoke at any minute, certain he would disappear the second she loosened her grip.

"Liz'bth, yuh _squishing_ me."

She couldn't tell if it was a laugh or sob that burst from her throat. Most likely both. She held him back from her just far enough for her to see his face and let him breathe. "Where _were_ you?"

He looked at her quizzically. "I was here."

"You were gone, Neal. I let go for just a second, and you ran off."

"Didn't wrun," he protested, and his trackerless ankle twitched against her leg.

"I didn't know where you were. I turned around and you were just gone, and I didn't know where you were, and I was scared."

She didn't realize she was crying until clumsy fingers were brushing away her tears, and fluttering kisses were placed against her cheek, and Neal whimpered, distressed.

"Don't cry," he told her. "Don't cry, don't cry, I'm sowwy." He hugged her tight, face buried in her neck. "I'm sowwy."

She held him to her, and wondered how parents did this, dealt with this fear, this panic, everyday, of losing your child.

She realized, suddenly, that it only went away once he was already lost, once you had nothing _left_ to lose, and held on a little tighter.


	9. Hope

**Lost Boy 9/? - Hope**

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_A/N: I have officially reached over 100 reviews! Have I mentioned lately how much I love you guys? 'Cause I really really do. Ice cream for everybody! ;p Since I love you guys so much I decided to write it sans the cliffhanger I was originally planning. I have also already written almost the entire next chapter, and I have a bazillion ideas for future parts once I have this upcoming bit done… So hopefully I'll have more up soon. *fingers crossed*_

Peter watched, annoyed, as his knee continuously bounced up and down, just barely grazing the edge of the picnic table he was seated at. He'd tried to make it stop, but only succeeded in making the other one start, and so had placed his hands on them to hold them still only to have passerby give him odd looks - no doubt wondering who the crazy man was, physically restraining his own knees. So he'd let go. And now it was bouncing again.

It wasn't nerves, exactly, that was causing it. Not nerves like the first time he walked Elizabeth to her door, wondering if he should try for a goodnight kiss, or like the first time he'd stared down the barrel of a gun and thought _Oh, God, I could __**die**__. _

It was more like how he felt after Neal had made him that offer to help catch The Dutchman.

He wasn't entirely sure what that meant.

He did wonder, though, what it said that so much of his life these last several years kept coming back to _Neal_.

"P'tr!"

Speak of the devil.

He stood just as little arms wrapped around his leg, and he looked down to see a mop of dark curls and something with plastic eyes _looking at him. _

He glanced up to see where Elizabeth was and noted with some relief that she was only a few yards away, walking towards him with an indulgent smile on her face.

"Lookit I got!" Neal cried, releasing Peter's leg and thrusting the plastic-eyed thing towards him. "Itsa dog! Dug tuh dog! He tawks!" He pressed it's paw to demonstrate, and Peter smiled and told him it was nice, and secretly thought it sounded a lot like an instructor he'd had at Quantico. Kinda looked like him too.

Elizabeth gave him a kiss, and handed him a bag of takeout that she'd picked up from their favorite sandwich shop. "It reminded him of Satch," she informed him, "and I realized I hadn't gotten him any toys or anything so I told him he could get it."

Neal was running the toy back and forth along the picnic table, talking to it in hushed tones.

"Neal," Peter suggested, "why don't you take, uh, 'Dug' over and show him the slide while we set up lunch?" He pointed to a playground across from their table.

Neal happily ran (and as adult-Neal Peter had wanted to bottle his energy for personal use when it felt like his _experience_ - not age- was catching up to him, but now, simply _looking_ at child-Neal made him tired) over to play.

Peter took a moment to look at his wife, really _look _at her, her eyes trained on Neal as he ran up the playground equipment. She looked happy. She was smiling the smile she wore the day her business cards arrived and she saw "Burke Premiere Events" in embossed gold lettering for the first time. The smile she wore the first time he introduced her to someone as "this is my _wife, _Elizabeth Burke." The smile she wore when her world was _perfect_.

God, she was beautiful.

"Have a nice day, honey?" he asked, turning away and setting out their lunch spread.

"Mm-hmm. We went shopping. Picked up a booster seat and Dug and some Johnson & Johnson shampoo and bubble bath so we don't have to worry about him getting it in his eyes."

Normally, at that point, she would ask how _his_ day was going, but apparently not this time. Not when he'd started the day searching for answers she didn't want to find.

"I went looking for Mr. Muriuki," he told her. "The man who owned the idol."

She didn't look at him, was still watching Neal who was lying on his stomach across a swing, holding Dug out in front of him like he was flying. Her shoulders tensed.

"I went back to his penthouse. I figured if anyone would know how to reverse this, he would."

Her back straightened a little more, and she made a sound like she'd strangled her breath in her throat.

"El, look at me." She didn't move, remained as still as a prey animal the instant before it's fight-or-flight response kicks in. "El, please."

She turned, and her eyes flashed, and he knew then that she chose _fight_, but he spoke up quickly, before she got the chance.

"The place was cleared out, El. Mr. Muriuki's gone."

Something like hope sparkled in her eyes when he told her "I don't know how to change him back."

_A/N: Also, fun fact. I actually researched to find what I thought to be an 'appropriate' name for Mr. Idol-owner-guy. "Muriuki" is a Kikuyu (ethnic group found in Kenya) name meaning "rebirth". I'm oddly proud of this. :p_


	10. Decisions

**Lost Boy - Chapter 10/? - Decisions**

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_A/N: It's longer! Yay! Also, I think this may be the last one that's in order. I had originally planned to do random de-aged!Neal ficlets, in whichever order they come to me, so those might be up next. I have lots of ideas for them (some I'm really excited about). I hope you like this chapter. Oooh! Hey, you know what I like? (Besides chocolate.) Reviews! Pwetty pwease, with sugar on top? Also, special shout out to Rainnboots and Kathryn Marie Black who are especially awesome, and make me smile._

It had been a good day, Peter reflected. He'd run himself in circles trying to track down the elusive Mr. Muriuki, and had nothing to show for it, but lunch had been nice. It had been better than nice.

Neal had whined about the smell of Peter's deviled ham, and proceeded to sit on the other side of Elizabeth to get away from it, and then picked apart his own turkey-and-cheese to eat each bit individually (except the lettuce because it was "droopy".) He had run around like a gerbil on speed, and made them push him on the swings, and gone up and down the slide dozens of times while Peter and Elizabeth chatted about ball games and work and the freaking safety features on Neal's booster seat. Peter had looked around and noticed that they were just like every other family there.

He looked around and realized that for the first time nothing was _missing_.

By the time the agent had to head back into work Neal had worn himself out and Elizabeth was buckling him into the car mouthing the words "nap time" at Peter.

When he arrived back at the office, Jones casually asked "Nice lunch?" and he had replied "Yeah. Perfect."

And it was.

He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find any trace of Mr. Muriuki, but no luck. His contact information was worthless, there was no record of him on the computers, and he couldn't even find an American passport under that name. It was like he didn't exist.

When he got home, Neal and Elizabeth were in the kitchen, baking cookies.

Satchmo was supervising.

"P'tr!"

Already he was becoming used to being greeted by that excited voice.

Neal approached him with a handful of cookie dough. "S'got choc'it. Want some?"

He held it up to him in offering, a sticky glob squished with the imprints of little fingers.

Peter smiled at him. "No thank you."

Neal returned to Elizabeth, watching her put the cookies in the oven, and licking his fistful of dough.

The kitchen was warm, and smelled like _home_, and when he kissed El, her lips tasted like chocolate.

"Should he be eating that before dinner?" Peter asked, with a nod towards Neal.

"He's the official taste-tester," she replied with a loving glance at the boy.

Neal grinned around the fingers in his mouth, and Peter hoisted him up over the sink to wash the sugar and spit from his hands.

"Neal, baby, why don't you go keep Satchmo occupied in the living room while Peter and I get dinner ready?"

He retrieved his stuffed toy from the table and held it out to her. "Dug help."

She propped the toy up on the counter. "He can supervise."

Another grin, and he ran out of the room calling "S'tchmo! Come pway!"

Elizabeth watched them go, then turned to the fridge, pulling out a pre-made casserole and salad ingredients.

She wasn't looking at him again, and her voice was carefully neutral when she asked "Find anything on Mr. Muriuki?"

"No. He may as well be a ghost."

She began chopping carrots. "Are you going to keep looking?"

He was quiet for a moment, watching her work, wincing every time the knife hit the cutting board with a bit more force than necessary.

"I don't know."

She stopped chopping, and leant over the counter, her hands plastered flat against the surface. "I want to keep him, Peter. I want to give him this. He deserves a second chance."

He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Do you want this for _him_," he asked gently, "or _us_?"

She turned in his arms, and her eyes were shining with tears he prayed wouldn't fall. He never could stand to see her cry. "Why can't it be both? Things like this don't just _happen_, Peter, and certainly not without a reason. And we love him, we already loved him, and we'd have been fine without a child, we'd have been happy, we _were_ happy, but how can we go back now? Could you really change him back, and look at him everyday, and not think about the what-ifs? Would you really be able to come home and walk by the guestroom and not ache to see it empty?" She shuddered in his arms. "He's _happy_, Peter, and he was already _ours_, and I want to keep him." She pressed closer to him, her cheek laying over his heart, and whispered "_Please_," like a prayer against his skin.

He held her for long moments, not saying anything, just thinking, trying to decide what was _right_, wondering who's choice this was to make.

Finally, he came to a conclusion.

He pressed a kiss to his wife's forehead, murmuring "I've got to talk to Neal."

El took a deep breath, composing herself, and nodded. "After dinner," she agreed quietly, and turned back to the carrots.

Dinner was a relatively quiet affair, aside from Neal's attempts to sneak bites off his plate for Satchmo, who sat loyally (or, more accurately, hungrily) at his feet.

After a quick bath and change into airplane-patterned pj's, El tucked him in while Peter waited outside the door, composing his thoughts, until she came out and retreated to their bedroom. He sighed, mentally telling himself to "cowboy up" and entered the room.

The first thing he noticed was the soft glow emanating from the "Starry Night" night light plugged into the wall. Neal was curled up around his blanket, smiling sleepily at Peter.

He smiled back at the boy, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Neal," he said, tucking the comforter around the tiny body a little more securely, "Neal I need you to answer a couple of questions for me, okay? And there's no right or wrong answer, but it's very important."

Neal nodded seriously.

Peter opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to put words to what he wanted to ask. Finally, he just went with the simplest question. "Are you happy?"

Neal smiled and nodded again, vigorously, damp bangs falling into his eyes.

Peter's lips turned up as well, and he brushed the boy's hair back with his fingertips. "You remember being a grown-up, right Neal?"

Another nod.

"Were you happy then?"

He paused, his face serious as he considered his answer, and Peter was relieved to know that he really was thinking about this.

"Yes," he answered finally, but there was the slightest hint of hesitation, and Peter seized it.

"But?"

"But… Sad, too. Hurt."

Peter had known, of course. He'd been there when Kate died, and he knew Neal's life hadn't been a bed of roses even before that. But he still hated that Neal had been hurting and there was nothing he could do about it. "And now, Neal? Are you still sad?"

Neal was quiet for a moment, chewing on the knuckles of his fingers as he thought. "Less now," he finally decided. "Farder away."

The fist that was clenched around Peter's heart loosened, just a little bit.

"Okay, Neal. Last question. And I need you to think especially hard about this one, okay?"

Nod.

"Do you want to be a grownup again, and have things go back to the way they were, or would you like to stay like you are, and grow up all over again?" Peter took a breath, and held it, as Neal thought this over.

After a small eternity had passed, he looked up at Peter, and asked hesitantly, "Would you keep me? 'F I was widdle?"

Peter let out the breath. "Yeah, yeah Neal, El and I would keep you. We'd find a way to keep you."

Neal studied him, the same look on his face as when adult-Neal studied a forgery, looking for the flaws.

This Neal was looking for the truth.

"Even when 'm bad?" he asked. "You keep me even t'en?"

Peter swallowed around the lump in his throat. "There is _nothing_ you could ever do," he swore "that would be bad enough El and I wouldn't want you."

Neal wasn't accepting that as an answer. Didn't believe someone could love him enough to keep him _no matter what_. He crawled out from beneath his cocoon of blankets and into Peter's lap, his tiny hands framing the man's face, staring seriously into his eyes. "Even t'en."

Peter nodded, promising "Even then."

Neal studied him some more, and finally, _finally_ trusting what he saw, smiled and snuggled into Peter's chest, curling up and yawning, one tiny fist clenched around Peter's fingers. "I'd wike you to keep me," Neal whispered, and drifted off to sleep.

Peter cuddled him close and breathed in the soft baby-smell of him, and silently swore that he'd move Heaven and Earth if that's what it took to keep him.


	11. Replaced

**Lost Boy - Chapter 11/? - Replaced**

Disclaimer: Not mine. But my 22nd birthday is soon. Guess what's on my wish list?

_A/N: I know it has been a really __**really**__ long time since I've written anything. Life has been ganging up on me. Everything from a 4-person funeral (my brother's best friends), to cardiac checkups, to starting my senior year and planning for Grad school, and plenty in between. Anywhoo, as I mentioned in chapter 10, this chapter is not immediately following the previous - I'm going to be skipping around in the timeline, so it's about 2 year later. Now, as per usual, please read and review. Please, please review. _

_Also, this chapter is dedicated to __**ghostdolly **__who I've recently found actually PM'd me to see if I was okay, which means a great deal. Thank you. _

Mozzie was trying really hard not to be jealous. Really, really hard.

So far it wasn't working.

He peeked out from behind the kitchen door, taking in the scene in the living room, and scowled. There, sat beside Neal, _his_ best friend, was a curly-headed little blonde boy, smiling and talking and making Neal laugh.

He wondered, briefly, if his pride should be dented for being jealous of a five year-old.

He decided he didn't have any pride and glared daggers at the child, thinking unkind things about his parentage and wondering if he didn't have any contacts who could arrange for them to move back to California.

"What're you doing?"

He _barely_ jumped, and certainly did _not_ squeak, and almost entirely kept his fingers from being smashed in the closing door.

"Suit! What? Nothing. I'm doing nothing. As a matter of fact, I'm not even here."

He headed for the back door, but was foiled when the suit snagged the back of his shirt.

Peter crossed his arms and gave him _the look_, the one he used to use on Neal when he knew he was hiding something. (The one he used on Neal last week, actually, when a couple of cookies went missing before dinner, and Neal was looking _way_ too innocent to be believed.) "Were you spying on Neal and his friend?"

This _look_ didn't work on Mozzie, not at all. Honest. It just would have been impolite not to answer.

"No. I was… _observing_. Making sure the kid wasn't a body snatcher, or a Russian spy, or something."

One of Peter's eyebrows rose, and Mozzie did not _squirm_. "Yes, because 'Skylar Andrews' sounds like the name of Russian spy material. Not to mention that he's five."

"What kind of name is _Skylar_, anyways?" Mozzie asked in a tone that was _in no way_ sullen.

"Gee, I don't know, _Mozzie_, I can't imagine who would go by such an odd name."

Mozzie started to nod in agreement until he realized the suit was being sarcastic, and he glared instead. "I'm just looking out for Neal's wellbeing. After all, I have been doing that for longer than you, _Suit_."

Peter gave him his I-Am-Not-Impressed look, and Mozzie _didn't _squirm and only adjusted his glasses because he was worried they were slipping down his nose.

"Well, I think he's fine," Peter said, handing him two plates of peanut butter sandwiches and grabbing two plastic cups and a jug of chocolate milk out of the fridge, "but if you want to check the back of their necks for little red X's that's your prerogative."

Mozzie suspected he was being placated but followed Peter into the living room anyways.

"Who's hungry?" Peter asked the room, and at the sound of his voice Neal leapt up from his position on the floor, quickly navigating his way through the army of crayons he had amassed to get to his father. Peter barely got the drinks set down in time to scoop up the tiny energizer bunny masquerading as human. They shared a quick hug before Neal slid back down to his feet again, dragging "Skylar" over to the group.

"This is Skyla. He moved here from waaaaaaay" (and at this Neal stretched his arms out to show just how far "waaaaaaay" was) "across the country. He has tuh same playground time as me, and he likes art better'n dirt too!"

Mozzie smirked at this, because no matter how Peter tried Neal was more content drawing a man sliding onto a base than actually doing it himself. Last time Peter had made him try it Elizabeth had been forced to intervene to prevent the tears when Neal saw the stains on his miniature Yankees uniform.

"Very nice to meet you, Skylar," Peter said genially, reaching down to shake the boys hand, making the tow-head grin.

Mozzie did not think it was nice at all, and tried to convey that with a glare while he attempted to surreptitiously catch a glance at the boy's neck. You could never be too careful.

Peter elbowed him, as Neal continued his introductions.

"Skyla, this is my Daddy. He's uh FBI agent," he told the boy proudly, hugging his father's knee. He rushed over to Mozzie, grabbing a fistful of his shirt possessively. "And this is Mozzie. He's my best fwiend."

If Mozzie felt extra warm inside it was because that California-bred Petri dish had given him some sort of West-coast flu. If his eyes were almost a little bit moist it was because of the glare off the boy's too-bright blonde head. And if he hugged Neal a little bit tighter when he left that evening, it was just because he was glad that his neck was X-free.

Later that evening, tending to his bonsai garden, Mozzie's mind drifted, summoning back the words from the ether. _Best fwiend_.

He smiled.

He hadn't been replaced after all.


	12. Baseball

**Lost Boy - Chapter 12 - Baseball**

Disclaimer: Not mine. Still. Sadly.

_In honor of "Stealing Home" (Yay! Baseball!) here is a baseball-themed fic that was briefly hinted at in the previous chapter of "Lost boy"._

"Mommy! Mommy _look_!" Neal, as exuberant as ever, ran into the kitchen like a runaway wind-up toy, nearly knocking full-force into Elizabeth's legs. "I has a _unifowm._ Isn't it pwetty?" He plucked at his Yankee's shirt and grinned.

Elizabeth smiled at her husband as he leisurely trailed Neal into the kitchen, then looked back down at her son. "It's lovely, sweetheart. Does that mean you and your daddy are going to go play baseball?"

Neal shrugged distractedly, brushing a spot of lint from his pants.

"Yeah," Peter answered for her, "A couple of the dads from his school are setting up a game in the park. I figured he could use my glove from when I was in little league. Might be a little big still, but he can grow into it. You want to come watch?"

"Of course! What do you think baby," she asked, turning back to Neal, "you want me to see you play your first baseball game?"

He looked at the excited faces of his parents and nodded. "Uh-huh! Come see!" He tugged their hands towards the door. "Satchmo, come!"

Four eager feet skittered quickly across the tile and followed them out to the car.

Neal was good at a great many things, both as an adult and a child.

Baseball was not one of them.

As a pitcher, his throws kept falling short. "I don't wanna hit anybody!"

As an outfielder he kept getting bored and wandering off, charming the grandmothers who'd come to see their grandkids play, or drawing DaVinci sketches in the dirt.

At bat, he wasn't bad. He could hit the ball okay, but he really shined when it came to running bases. The boy was fast, there was no doubt about that, and it made Peter proud to see his kid was obviously a much faster runner than any of the (mostly older and much bigger) kids. There was just one problem.

He wouldn't slide.

"Neal, that's how you play the game. Sometimes you've got to slide to a base to make a run."

"But Daddy, there's _dirt_," Neal informed him exasperatedly. "I'll get dirty."

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. "That's part of sports buddy. You get dirty when you play. You're a little boy, it's supposed to be _fun_." It certainly had been when he was a kid. Whether it was in the event of playing a sport, roughhousing with his friends or just running through mud puddles, he loved to see just how dirty he could get, and what color his mom's face would turn when she saw him.

"But I don't want to."

Peter sighed. "Just try bud, for me, okay? Please."

Neal sighed too, sounding extremely put-upon, but nodded. "Okay, fine."

Ten minutes later, Neal slid into home.

His team cheered.

Peter puffed up with pride.

Neal stared sorrowfully at his grass-stained knees.

Five minutes after that Elizabeth and Satchmo cuddled Neal over by the picnic tables, promising she could get the stain out, while the rest of the kids gleefully played in the dirt.

Peter tried to console himself with the thought that maybe Neal could at least run track.

_Please review. Also, as I have decided that I am not above begging, please please please, if you have a Facebook account, go to http:/ www. facebook__. com/ media/set/?set=a. 330544246989911. 80458.241564562554547&type=3__ (minus the spaces) and "like" both Alabama Toys and Teacups Boutique, and (especially) the pic of the black and white Cocker Spaniel & cat. (I'm trying to win a puppy, and I'm obviously willing to give up my dignity to do so!) ;)_


	13. The Second Star to the Right  Pt 1

**Lost Boy Chapter 13 -**

**The Second Star to the Right 1/?**

_A/N: Okay, so this was written for the Kid!Fic Fest over at the White Collar Hurt/Comfort Community. It's set within my "Lost Boy" series (although if you wave your hand at the fact that Neal is a kid, I suppose you could read it on its own) and is going to be like a little mini-arc thing within that verse, so there will probably be 2 or so more parts to this. Please review and let me know what you think (particularly as I take every bit of constructive criticism seriously and will take it under consideration as I write the next bits.) Thanks, and Happy Spring!_

Six days, eleven hours, and forty-three minutes.

That's how long it took. Six and a half days. Too long. It was too long. It should never have happened in the first place.

Peter paced the length of the waiting room, tugging at his hair. He felt sick but there was nothing in his stomach. When he'd all but collapsed in the men's room earlier, he'd clung to the porcelain and wretched nothing but bile. Not surprising really. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. He was sure he must have, over the course of the week, had a sandwich and cup of coffee pressed into his hands at irregular intervals by Jones or Diana or one of a dozen agents swarming around him, but the last meal he remembered was breakfast, six days ago. Elizabeth made pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse because ever since they'd taken Neal to Disney World for his eighth birthday last month the boy had decided that "everything tastes better if it's shaped like Mickey's head." Neal drew eyes and a smile on his pancakes with syrup and tried to keep Peter from noticing that he was sneaking bits of bacon to his new puppy, Mingus, under the table. Neal had been happy and healthy and _safe_, and then he wasn't. He wasn't, and it was Peter's fault.

"Peter. Peter."

Someone was tugging on his arm, and his hand hurt, and he realized he'd struck the wall with his fist. The knuckles were split and bleeding sluggishly, bits of plaster stuck to them, and they _hurt_ but he wanted to hit the wall again and again and again because _it was his fault_.

"Peter!" Still quiet, but more urgent, and he finally turned to face the source of the voice. Diana, he noted, a hand still on his arm and worry in the lines between her brows.

"Peter. Boss. You alright?"

The acid in his stomach churned, crawling up the back of his throat. No. No, he was very much not alright.

"I'm fine." His voice was hoarse and dull and he no longer had the energy to lie well, wrung-out and cold and _hollow_, from six and a half days of emotions that burned like the sun and a frenzied, frantic pace of doing _something_ that led to this horrific _nothing_ of waiting. He propped his back against the abused wall, the bone-deep exhaustion setting in and threatening to take him out at the knees. Diana retreated and he watched her go, fall back into her chair amongst the unusual group in the waiting room. The coworkers and strangers and adversaries who had somehow become friends through a charming young man with a Cheshire grin, and then, impossibly, become family through a sweet little boy with that same impish smile.

Diana and Jones and half a dozen other agents, suits wrinkled and ties loose at throats, agents who kept crayons in their desks for the days Neal came to the office to "help" Peter with paperwork, agents who had spent the week rushed and sleepless and searching, an anxiousness to their work, like it was one of their own missing. June, who dotes on Neal like he's one of her own beloved grandchildren, and her Samantha, who's life Neal once saved, who, now a teenager, has never forgotten and is never too busy with school or sports or friends to drop by when Neal has a piece in his school art show or an important meet for his swim team. Elizabeth and Mozzie, huddled together, pale and drawn, hands clutched for comfort over the armrests of their seats. Mozzie, who was Neal's first best friend, who is still Neal's "best best-friend", who loved him through time and trials and separation, through differences and disaster, who speaks loudly about "self-preservation" but would _always_ put Neal first.

And Elizabeth. His El. The woman who had opened her door to a conman so many years ago, invited him into her home, fixed him home cooked meals and fussed over him when he wasn't feeling well. El, who had loved Neal and mothered him long before he'd regressed back into a child, who had cried the first time Neal called her "Mommy" and seemed to have somehow known, always, that he was meant to be theirs.

The waiting room stank of ammonia and stale coffee. It was _beige_, which was not even worthy of being called a color, and it was too small for Peter to pace in without feeling like a caged tiger. And it was full of family, of people who loved Neal, and while that should have made him feel better, should have comforted him, it just made it worse. It made it so much worse. Because they had to know, they _must_ know that it was Peter's fault. He was to blame, he was the reason they were all here, weak with worry.

For years Peter had been keeping a watchful eye on Neal. When he was chasing him he was all but obsessed with his whereabouts, and when Neal was his partner Neal was hardly out of his sight for longer than a day or two on the weekends, and since his transformation back to a child, Peter always knew where he was. With his mom, or Grandma June, or Mozzie, or at school, Peter always knew where Neal was, was always watching out for him.

Until, just for a second, he glanced away. He can't even remember what was so important now, what could possibly be so important that he would take his eyes off his son for even a _second_. But he did.

On a warm Sunday morning in the park, not ten feet away from the playground, eight year-old Neal George Caffrey Burke was kidnapped by a six-foot something Caucasian man in a navy blue baseball cap and dark sunglasses.

He was missing for six days, eleven hours, and forty-three minutes.

And it was all Peter's fault.


End file.
